


Against the Wall

by Devilbaby



Category: Sherlock Holmes (Downey films)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-06
Updated: 2015-08-06
Packaged: 2018-04-13 07:41:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4513584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Devilbaby/pseuds/Devilbaby
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just all, "fuck me now!" Clashing lips, open mouths, grabbing hands and dirty talk.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Against the Wall

Watson lives for these moments, not that he would ever admit it. He is a gentleman - or liked to believe he was - and there were things society expected of its gentlemen; things he should do...and things he should never do. 

For example, Watson should never enjoy chasing dangerous criminals through Whitechapel at two in the morning. He should never enjoy the feeling of his fists connecting with wicked flesh, or the sound of his cane cracking against a thick skull. Most of all, he definitely should never enjoy the sight of his dearest friend bruised and bleeding and softly panting next to him in the darkness. Gentlemen did not enjoy these sorts of things.

Watson loved them.

Holmes catches his eye and smirks at him. There is no need to admit such things to the detective, he knows. He always has. Watson returns the smirk with a steely glare, and that too is in keeping with the charade. 

"Why Watson," Holmes breathes an oh, Watson should really, really not enjoy that voice; dark and low and purring with wicked promise, "one would almost think you weren't enjoying yourself."

The murderer at their feet moans and Holmes delivers a blow with his boot that sends him spiraling back into oblivion, eyes never leaving Watson's. It's a dirty move, to kick a man when he's down and it's a side of the detective that will never make it into Watson's memoirs. The men of Strand fame are nothing if not proper gentlemen.

Poor bastards.

Another moment and the detective is on him, breath hot against his neck. "Lestrade will not be here for at least fifteen minutes, perhaps as many as twenty five. What shall we do in the meantime?"

With a growl Watson grab him by the collar and pivots, pinning him against the wall. Holmes laughs breathlessly as the doctor leans in, breathing in the smell of sweat and heat and traces of sulfur. The detective smells alive in a way Watson has never known, and it makes him feel alive as well.

He brings his mouth dangerously close to Holmes', their lips nearly touching. "You're injured," he whispers gruffly, and there is nothing of sympathy in his voice. 

"An ast-astute observation, my good fellow. Your powers of perception are a mar-"

Watson kisses him. It's not the delicate, sweet kiss a gentleman bestows to his lady, nor the passionate kiss of hot youth and young love. It's a snarling, merciless thing, as hard and dangerous as the men who share it. Watson presses the detective into the wall, hands fisting in the wool of his overcoat as Holmes' fingers dig into the doctor's hips.

A crack of thunder splits the sky.

"Watson," Holmes rasps, a desperate note in his voice and to hell with what gentlemen should and shouldn't do. For a time they are nothing but lips and teeth as blind fingers fumble uselessly with buttons and flies, until Watson all but rips the shirt from him and Holmes' hand is in his trousers.

"It seems I was wrong about your lack of enthusiasm." He pants, and squeezes as Watson sinks his teeth into the detectives' shoulder.

"God..." The raw need in Holmes voice sends the heat coiling through the doctor's groin, and he is no gentleman now. In one smooth motion he has him turned against the wall, the palm of one hand stoppering his mouth. 

"Ten minutes to make you come, Holmes," He whispers threateningly, his other hand sliding down to grasp the detectives' cock, "Kindly shut your damn mouth until then."

Holmes bites down as Watson enters him, muffling a cry, and there is nothing soft or gentle about the way they fuck; they could certainly not be said to be making love. Holmes has one hand braced before him, the other reaching around to bury itself in the doctor's hair. Each thrust of Watson's hips sends him slamming against the wall, bare chest scraping against rough brick.

Seven minutes and they come together, Holmes spilling into Watson's hand and by the time Lestrade arrives four minutes later they have more or less repaired themselves. Holmes is congratulating himself on his recent victory, coat buttoned up to the chin and Watson is a gentleman once more, fastidiously straightening his tie.

The skies part and rain pours over London as the good doctor takes his detective home.


End file.
